how do we even begin?
My heart is beating too fast for me to sleep. The city drifts up through my windows, and I think. I need to write more. The only way I seem able to find myself, and ground myself, and keep myself from becoming too insane, is to write. And lately I've been feeling incredibly insane. I don't like to think myself the tortured writer or any such nonsense, but I'm probably too crazy and unhinged to ever live a well adjusted life. Those of you close enough to me have seen this in effect.
My mind is a whirl of ideas and song lyrics that half mean somethings. But nothing comes out onto the page. I know now that it was foolish to think I could write a book, even a short one, over the course of a summer. I lack too many things that I need to become successful in the only thing that I can do with my life and not want to kill myself. Perhaps lately I've been overly critical of my own flaws, but they are all that seem to manifest.
Somehow I always get things done, in the end. I feel as if I am not literary enough, not well read enough. When do I have time to play catch up on all the books I should have read long ago when I have to read so many histories and travel accounts of Spain? I do not write down enough details. I need to go back to Spain. The memories of being there are crystal clear in my mind, but I cannot translate them into words. Something is blocking me. Well, it's probably myself.
I'm going to try and write something.
My mind is a whirl of ideas and song lyrics that half mean somethings. But nothing comes out onto the page. I know now that it was foolish to think I could write a book, even a short one, over the course of a summer. I lack too many things that I need to become successful in the only thing that I can do with my life and not want to kill myself. Perhaps lately I've been overly critical of my own flaws, but they are all that seem to manifest.
Somehow I always get things done, in the end. I feel as if I am not literary enough, not well read enough. When do I have time to play catch up on all the books I should have read long ago when I have to read so many histories and travel accounts of Spain? I do not write down enough details. I need to go back to Spain. The memories of being there are crystal clear in my mind, but I cannot translate them into words. Something is blocking me. Well, it's probably myself.
I'm going to try and write something.